


Sovereignty

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 16:37:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8631166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Faramir serves a special guest.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

For once, Faramir is glad of his father’s treatment—if he were not being sent with supper like a servant, he’d never get a chance to properly meet their guest. The cloaked figure came to kneel before Denethor’s throne, earned a twisted sneer from Denethor’s ever-trouble face, and offered a neatly wrapped scroll that turned that sneer into a scowl. Quarters were arranged without any explanation, and though Boromir and Faramir exchanged their looks, Faramir is the only one who still _wonders_. 

And now, hopefully, he will learn of their visitor—no other servants were assigned, and no one else could answer the door. Faramir shifts the large tray across his arm to knock, and then he steps politely back, waiting.

It isn’t long. A few seconds, and the door creaks open, a tall figure standing on the other side, still draped in a dark hood that tells Faramir nothing. He can see that the man has a slender shape and a sheathed sword at his hip but little else. The quality of the cloak’s fabric is high, the golden pattern embroidered along the hem distinctly foreign. Faramir stifles his disappointment at learning nothing and extends the tray. “You dinner, my lord.” The title is half a hunch and half a hope for clarification. It doesn’t seem to stir the guest in the slightest, who inclines his head towards the sliced potatoes. The bulk of dinner is the meat. Really, visitors high enough to stay within the keep should dine with the steward, but Denethor is...

The guest opens his door wider and nods his head towards the round table inside—Faramir heads forward. It’s been some time since he’s been in these particular chambers, a few summers ago when Imrahil came to stay, and they don’t seem to have been touched since. He hears the door close behind him as he sets the tray down. When he turns, he finds the man directly behind him.

He has no time to be startled. The man lifts his hand out of one long sleeve to cup Faramir’s cheek. His fingers are long, slim, and extraordinarily soft—more smooth as silk than skin. The touch is distinctly warm, and for that pleasantness, Faramir doesn’t knock it away. He has more patience and tolerance than his father or brother would in his place. 

The man says slowly, in a voice like song, “You appear much as the steward, but your face is... kinder.”

Surprised, Faramir answers, “Thank you. I am his son, Faramir.”

The man clucks his tongue. “I have only heard of one son, and he was called Boromir, I believe.”

Faramir nods into the man’s palm, still delicately wrapped against him. “You will have. He is my elder brother, and a finer warrior you will never meet.” Beneath the shadow of the man’s hood, his pink lips stretch into an indulgent smile. His thumb gently strokes Faramir’s cheek, and Faramir’s breath hitches. He pushes himself to ask, “And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

The hand leaves for that. Faramir finds he misses it instantly, but the result is more than worth the absence—the man takes both sides of his hood and tosses it back, revealing himself fully.

He is, in a word, beautiful. It’s no _Man_ , but an elf, not the wizened woodland kind Faramir’s heard crude stories of, but an exquisite, exotic creatures with an elegant curve and point to each ear and a broad agelessness about his fair features. His eyes are clear as water, his hair a sunshine yellow, and it cascades evenly down his shoulders in shimmering, supple waves. He’s like something out of a dream, and at first, all Faramir can do is _stare_ , until the elf’s minstrel-voice recites, “I am Finrod, though I may be known here as Felagund.”

He waits, then, perhaps for recognition, but Faramir hasn’t heard of either name. He’s sure if he’d seen a painting, he would never forget it. The pause gives Finrod a restrained smile, and he sighs, “I suppose I could not expect to remain in the memory of Men—it has been a long time in mortal years before Mandos would permit me this. Even now, I cannot do all I would like.”

What that is, he doesn’t say, instead strolling around the table. Before he takes his seat, he gestures across from him, and Faramir hesitates, but Finrod goes on, “Please, join me. It has been too long since I shared the company of Men.”

A full invitation, Faramir can’t refuse. As he settles into the old wooden chair, he muses, “I did not know that Elves shared the company of Men at all.”

Finrod lets out a chiming laugh. He plucks a silver fork from the tray and maneuvers it towards the potatoes, but the steak, he pushes towards Faramir, and Faramir thinks he may have heard once of an Elven aversion to the flesh of animals. Fortunately, two forks were provided for the different parts, and there’s one left for Faramir to take. Finrod skewers his first slice and explains, “I am not, I suppose, typical amongst my kind. My cousins did so love to tease me for it, although they learned soon enough the value of allies. Several of my kin, in fact, were quite close to dwarves, although I am saddened to learn this friendship did not last the test of time.”

It’s strange to think that elves and dwarves were once friendly, but it’s even stranger to think of this particular elf remembering such a time—he doesn’t look much older than Faramir. He’s certainly more beautiful. Faramir’s tempted to ask just how many centuries he’s seen but quickly thinks better of it. Besides, Faramir isn’t sure he wishes to break the spell. Surely, this is a great Elven lord, but, thus far, he seems to regard Faramir as an equal, which is more than can be said even for the steward. 

As he picks at the meat—being now far more interested in _this_ than hunger—Faramir thinks to add, “I apologize for the quality of the meal. If I had known you were our guest...” He’s not sure what he would’ve done. The cooks wouldn’t know how to prepare Elven dishes.

But Finrod waves his hand dismissively and sets in on another potato. He eats them without complaint, although Faramir very much doubts they’re up to his usual standard. “There is no need to trouble yourself. I was fed quite well in Imladris and stocked with plenty for the road in Lothlórien—my, how these lands have changed!—but it is _this_ I missed most—it is not the sort of thing you can taste across the sea.”

 _Across the sea_. This elf, truly, is out of legends. Faramir tries to be discreet, but he finds himself eyeing Finrod more with every word. Finrod goes on to glance wistfully out the window by his bed and note, “I had feared, as I entered the White City, that Lord Elrond’s assessment of the current state of it was optimistic, but I am pleased to see there are still good Men here.” Then he turns back, eyes directly catching Faramir’s, and his charming smile couldn’t make it clearer who he means. Faramir can feel his cheeks heating. 

Even as flattered as he is, he hoarsely answers, “You hardly know me.” And clearly, Finrod doesn’t know Boromir, or he would be in those chambers instead, sharing a meal with someone more worthy. Finrod’s smile grows, a deep sense of knowledge behind it and his eyes.

He reaches across the table and sets his hand gently atop Faramir’s. The contact sparks something in Faramir that warms him to his very core. 

“I know a good man when I see one,” Finrod insists, voice dipping low and quiet in an intimate but heavy assertion. “You are quite a handsome prince, Faramir, son of Gondor.”

Faramir’s face may be redder than the stake. He replies, “I am neither of the two.”

Finrod gives Faramir’s hand a short squeeze, then retracts it and returns to his food. He eats at a leisurely pace, but there isn’t much of it, given that he’s only having less than half the meal. There’s only one glass of wine, but Finrod doesn’t touch it. Faramir feels like he needs it. He tries to focus on the stake, but Finrod is... enchanting.

That’s something said of the witch in the Golden Woods. Perhaps this elf is related to her, and he, too, lures Men into his clutches, never to be seen again. Faramir’s not entirely sure he’d mind such a fate. 

When the stake is done, Finrod has only just finished his final piece. Faramir asks, “Shall I leave the wine?” but Finrod shakes his head, and Faramir leaves it on the tray. He knows it’s time for him to go—he was never meant to linger this long at all—but it takes some force of will to finally stand. He gives a respectful bow and collects the tray in both hands, and Finrod eyes him with a flicker of clear curiosity. Faramir wishes the kitchens were in the habit of serving guests pie—he’d like an excuse to return.

But he has nothing. He turns towards the door. His mind is reeling.

Before he takes a step, he pauses, and looks back to suggest, “As you are new here... perhaps you would like someone to show you the city? It is some days before my rangers leave again—I could escort you about.”

Finrod’s grin is absolutely dazzling. It reminds Faramir of the great jewels embedded in the treasury that only Denethor ever gets to run his fingers through, though Finrod’s beauty is grander still. Finrod tells him, “I graciously accept.” Faramir finds himself returning the smile, and Finrod adds, “Although, if you would not mind the intrusion, I would also be interested in the travel of a Southern ranger.”

For that, Faramir admits, “We will have to see.” As enticing as Finrod is, there are secrets that Faramir isn’t at liberty to reveal to just anyone. He’s almost positive that after a few days, Finrod will prove more than trustworthy. In the meantime, Finrod gives a curt nod as though he understands. 

Then Faramir’s run out of excuses, and he heads for the door. Finrod rises to follow, even reaching out to take the handle so that Faramir needn’t rearrange the tray. Before Finrod opens it, he leans forward to peck either of Faramir’s cheeks. Both kisses are quick, chaste, fleeting and merely polite: the custom in Gondor, usually placed on the forehead at parting, is not so different. But there’s a pleasure to Finrod’s mouth and an alluring gleam to his eyes that give Faramir a sense of more, and when Finrod does swing the door open, Faramir’s hard-pressed to leave through it. 

He does, eventually. He’s looking back the whole time, feeling as foolish as a child with a first crush. Finrod sighs whimsically, “Come for me again, Faramir of Gondor,” and then closes the door. 

Faramir knows he will. But first he returns the tray to the kitchens and checks to see if they have any pie.


End file.
